Once Upon a Time in the West
by Jilly-chan
Summary: AU. A western revenge story gone awry. After being raised by White Fang, Nichol goes to his home town to settle a shady past with the Barton family. Nichol. Trowa. Catherine x Walker.


Once Upon a Time in the West

By Jillian

(Disclaimer: after watching "Once Upon a Time in the West," I though I wanted to write myself another psuedo-western Gundam Wing fic. Nichol, Trowa, Catherine, Walker are not mine. But really, their story is mine since this is incredibly AU.)

* * *

He thought that by the age of twenty-six he understood what the world expected from him. You aren't given anything that you haven't deserved. If a day's work was given, a day's wages were expected. If you worked a quarter day, you got a quarter of a day's keep.

Then there was dumb bad luck. Like when your horse pulls up lame when you didn't notice the bit of a twisted iron nail had got caught up in tight. And the only choice you had once you noticed the trembles of infection was to put a twisted bit of metal between her dark chocolate eyes.

A honest man's work. Dumb bad luck. And the law.

Nikolai Raskolnikov became intimately familiar with the law when he found himself at sharp odds with the letter of it's rigid points. 'Thou shall nots' aside, the young man had a temper about him that caused a hue tint of deepest red to sink around his perceptions. The character flaw, as it was explained, must have come from his scandalous immigrant mother, Polina Raskolnikov, who had been one of Miss Madelyn's women in the railroad station town called Twin Creek. Polly, as she was called, had claimed the father of her son none other than the heirless rancher who held the largest account at the local bank.

Young Nikolai had been taken in for seven years, before his father's true wife conceived a son, a true Barton. Then like Ishmael in the Bible stories he heard in the church sermons, Nikolai found himself cast out and sitting in a corner of Miss Madelyn's saloon. The floor was dusty with the miles boots traveled. The train brought exotic dirt. And men with exotic tastes and interests too perverted for women. Nikolai tried to earn his day's wages in fair labor cleaning and unloading the alcohol from the train, turning as invisible as possible, but not always succeeding.

His gloomy temperament did not earn him favor with the local folks. One woman in particular, who often could be seen window-shopping the fancier dresses, would toss back her head and peer down at him from underneath her bonnet, grasping her basket closer to her stomach and say, "What rubbish do they let run on these streets? Rascal rat boy."

His Russian heritage earned him the nickname Rascal or the favorite insult of the window-shopping woman. Miss Madelyn, who would pat his curly dark hair with a long-suffering smile when the customers were all too drunk to notice, called him Nicky or Nichol.

"At least, we saved you from the streets and the filthy cold train," Miss Madelyn would say to comfort herself, as she handed Nichol a plate with a cold carrot and two pieces of bread left from some patron's dinner, "And you with your poor mother dying like she is. That's dumb bad luck, boy. That it is. But you could have done worse."

He took the plate every time and tried to swallow around the reflexive spasms of deep hidden anger. Nichol found it increasingly difficult to visit his mother's room, and even when she was healthy, Polina Raskolnikov had little interest in Nikolai beyond his ability to bring in the money needed to keep him. Those days she lay sunken deep into the sheets so that they had molded around her. Sweat kept her long dark hair pressed in strands against her face not unlike the faint blue pattern of the veins coming up from underneath her translucent skin. She had large dark eyes, that seemed to shine like even more polished glass stones against her white skin. Her lips were full, but her chin did point slightly more to one side and her eyebrows were thick. One or two men who had grown attached would leave an occasional courtesy coin for Polly. None of them seemed particularly interested in Nichol, until the day that Polina finally closed her eyes.

He was a tall and broad shouldered man, with a heavy moustache and curly, short beard. Nichol had watched from where he sat underneath the staircase as the man came back down the stairs.

"Boy," he had said, his emotionless tone did not betray any of the dangers that Nichol had learned to be wary of in men who came by the train. His hair was lighter brown, perhaps the dust had given it the silver streaks, but the deeply tanned wrinkles around the man's eyes betrayed an aged spirit even if his years weren't as old as some, "Your mother is dead." A peculiar relief caused Nichol's twelve year-old shoulders to relax. He could remember vividly the emotional comfort knowing that whatever he had felt bound him to stay was gone.

The man's eyes were brilliantly clear, like the sky when it forgot to be blue, "Do you have a voice, boy? I'm going to buy you a drink and harden up your insides. Then I'll take you with me."

Nichol would learn later that the word never spoken to him by the person he'd come to know as White Fang was, "Son." What he did learn was how to survive. By any means necessary.

After fourteen years, Nichol couldn't recall much of his time in the growing town of Twin Creek except flashes of long forgotten pain that his unpracticed heart had forgotten how to describe. He had the saddle balanced over his left shoulder, feeling vulnerable under its weight, but knowing better than to steal a nag that might be identified by the locals until he was ready to leave town. The weight of White Fang's weapon belted on his right side was solace enough. And the practical training of living off a gun and a healthy risk taking temperament.

The dangerous sort of individual that had Sheriff Yuy leaving his hometown in the hands of his deputy in order to gain back revenge for Nichol's misbehavior with a visiting congressman's wife and her missing jewelry. Yuy was different than other lawmen. Yuy had outdrawn White Fang in Cottonmouth Falls. Yuy had made a vow to put down Fang's gang and, in particular, the young co-leader Rat.

Nichol felt the premonition of disaster, beyond even his own fatalistic inclinations. He'd met with Jacob Walker in the valley between the Bonnie Bosom peaks and each had taken a different route to Twin Creek. Jacob Walker was his best friend and took Nichol's order without a second though. It was clear to the other man that Nichol was going to finish his business before letting Yuy finish him.

As Nichol watched the dusty tan buildings grow larger and began to hear the clank and buzz of the people and the whistling hiss of the train station, he knew that all he had left was destiny.

He didn't recognize the town, although the sign welcoming him to town left no doubt that he was in the town where Polina had tried to pawn him off as the son of a respectable man. A respectable man who had left the child he had not reason to suspect as anything but his son in the hands of strangers and cold women. Nichol felt his lip curl and the sweat that lingered there slipped into his mouth so that his tongue tasted bitter salt. He never could grow a proper looking beard and the stubble that sat there only fueled his inner furnace. He had been called attractive with his dark eyes and the womanly curls to his hair. But Nichol had learned to use his charm to his advantage as with the congressman's wife. Anne had been pathetically pliant once he'd physically convinced her to surrender her thousands of dollars in loose change, rather than trying to convince her with intellectual reasoning.

The first person he recognized was the backside of the woman twirling her parasol as she stared distractedly into the general store window to admire the changing fashions. Hefting the saddle, Nichol had to call upon his thinly won patience. Knowing where he was, he put his feet to the path remembered by a much smaller stride when it would run home hoping to get in each night before the customers were too drunk to care who they took to their beds.

Miss Madelyn's had been renovated in the between years, but far enough back that it had aged again with peeling paint on the edges of the windows and the entryway door squeaked as if one too many bar fights had it nearly off the hinges. The sign over the doorway said, "Catherine's Collectibles." Nichol hoped that Madelyn rotted in the ground. For the carrots and the bread, she would be spared.

For mid-afternoon, the tables and the bar were mostly empty. Nichol walked with audible step to the woman leaning on her elbows at the bar.

"What can I do for you, sir?" The tone was provocative, so that Nichol knew little had changed. But a strange sparkle in her blue eyes promised an unbroken intelligence.

He paused, then took a deep swallow wetting his throat, "Do you still rent rooms?"

"By the hour or the day?" Her answer was coy and as she stood up straight, he had to admire the copper highlights in her auburn hair. She was a very attractive woman with thin features but an aura of strength to her limbs and movement.

"I'm expecting to meet a friend, whether he's come first or not, I'm looking for lodging for a night's stay," Nichol replied. He knew from the flurry of her blinking and the set of her lips and the twitch of her perfectly arched eyebrows that she was processing that information receiving all sort of possible reasons. But, Nichol wanted the ambiguity. What an establishment like Catherine's Collectibles promised was confidentiality.

"I'm supposing you're the person that Mr. Walker meant," She studied him more closely, "Then he's upstairs in 2D."

"Thank you, kindly," He tipped his hat, then thinking better of it, removed the hat so that his eyes could finish adjusting to the inside lighting. He started toward the stairs, wondering if he truly recollected their groaning tones under his weight.

"Hey, it's the second door on the right," the woman he could only assume was Catherine called after him.

Nichol felt his lips pull back as he said too softly to be heard, "I know." Just then the pianist started to practice the music for the night's show. Nichol slid into the shadows of the hallway.

Pushing open the door, the first thing Nichol saw was his friend, Jacob Walker, blissfully asleep in the room's only bed. Jacob was the youngest of three Walker boys who had been part of White Fang's posse, but the only one who had lived. Nichol had liked Jacob best, but couldn't understand out of all of them how the least talented had managed to live the longest. Nichol knew if he'd been fond of anyone in his life, it was Jacob Walker.

Nichol dropped his saddle on the floor with little ceremony and the most noise possible. Then stomping over to the bed, he sat on the edge and pulled off his boots. He complained, "Walking nearly six miles to this godforsaken hell hole better not give me blisters or I'll steal every four legged beast of burden in this town."

"Why did you walk?" Walker said, sleepily. He didn't open his eyes but shifted as Nichol's weight had influenced the balance of the mattress, "You sure are noisy, Nikky."

"Had to shoot Sugarfoot. She came up bad lame and I couldn't exactly take her to the horse doctor, could I?"

"I dunno," Walker sounded as if he were slipping into his dreams again, "The wanted posters aren't up in this city yet. You might have managed to get her fixed up."

"Not in time," Nichol fought a feeling of regret. He'd let a girl who was sweet on him name the mare when White Fang had given him the sturdy horse as a present for his accomplishments. He'd long since forgotten the girl, but he had been particularly fond of the horse.

"Probably right."

"I am right," Nichol growled, and reached out to slap Walker's clean-shaven face, "Who are you trying to look pretty for. Did you take a bath?"

"She said she thought I'd clean up nice," his friend's smile opened as did his narrow eyes.

"Yeah, you smell real pretty. Bet it cost a pretty fortune too," Nichol stared at the far wall, watching strange patterns of light reflected from the window as they made patters against the yellowing wallpaper.

"Not half bad," Jacob Walker sat up, boyishly pulling up his knees and stretching his arms out to match his yawn, "Twin Creek seems to have plenty of water this spring." He paused to take in the sight of his companion, "You could probably use a wash yourself."

"No," Nichol said quietly, "I don't care about getting clean."

"Care to get an early dinner?" Walker was indefatigably optimistic and cheerful, "Catherine said that it tastes real good when you get the meat before it sits too long."

So Nichol found himself sitting opposite Walker while Catherine made several passes each time lingering longer and flirting more openly. Jacob didn't mind the attention either.

"Look at that wave in your hair, so shiny," Catherine had her slender fingers wrapped in the length of Walker's hair as she leaned into him, "No where nearly as curly as your brooding friend, here. What did you say your name was?"

"Nicholas," Nichol spoke and Walker paused with his mouth half open around the unspoken syllables, "Nicholas Romafeller."

"Hey! Not like the Romafeller family in Cottonmouth Falls, you're not?" She was brighter than Nichol had expected, but he had intentionally tested her.

"No relation, true enough. How quick do you folks get news from that area?" Nichol waited for her answer by chewing the last bite of him meat thoughtfully.

"Not often as we see more trains regularly going out of state to Hopewell," while she spoke, Walker's arm had found a balance on her hip while it wrapped around her waist. "I saw you coming in with your saddle, are you leaving on the train, or will you need a horse?"

"I had to put down my horse. She was dying slow after being on the wrong side of a poisonous snake," Nichol lied, finishing off his glass of rather tasteless alcohol, "Right sad about that too. She was a favorite of my mother's."

"Sure, that's sad," Catherine nodded putting on a face that could be called sympathetic, "I was just going to say, if you wanted a good beast, my half-brother has a surplus of good mares and a nice gelding or two."

"Half-brother?" Nichol raised his eyebrows, mildly intrigued.

"Yeah, I'm the bastard daughter of the richest family in town, would you know it?" Catherine laughed, "But apparently our father couldn't keep his ambitions in the marriage bed you see. Trowa's the only pure and blessed one he's given his legal and true wife."

"Trowa?" Nichol said, knowing that if he had any food left on his plate, he wouldn't have been able to swallow.

"Barton," Catherine said with a smile warmly affectionate like sunshine on a field of flowers in their prime colors, "Trowa Barton. He lives in the big house just on the opposite side of town. You can't miss it. He's always asking me to come home so he can take care of me. Nice enough, but he just doesn't understand the satisfaction that comes from a hard won day's work." With that she turned her spotlight smile onto Jacob Walker, who contemplated her with a more serious smile of his own.

"Barton," Nichol had stopped listening, "I think I would go calling on young Mr. Barton."

Catherine had been right about the Big House. Since Nichol's first years as the mistaken heir to the Barton fortune, the family had build a new homestead and the elegance of the structure seemed like a castle compared to the other new homes and businesses in town.

Nichol had contented himself and Catherine with splashing water on his face to take off the color that wasn't his true tan. He'd a piece of glass to check his reflection and his hands had shaken for a while before he could get a glimpse of the man he'd become. Catherine had joked that his eyes were like a woman's with lashes that any girl would be right jealous of. He practiced until he felt like the look in those eyes did not betray any of the unleashed emotions once he had heard the syllables: Barton.

The walkway to the front door was lined with shaped rocks and a few lingering flowers. While he took each step toward his anticipated confrontation, Nichol thought it strange that he would feel such resentment for a man who had, in the end, never been his father at all. But Polina only told the truth once and that had been to White Fang. As he hated his mother, he begrudgingly saw the way she had hoped to better his lot in life.

"Who are you?" A voice asked from some point to Nichol's right. As he looked over, he saw that in his brooding the stranger had been at liberty to scrutinize Nichol at leisure. Nichol took his time answering to observe the observer.

The young man was well-dressed in a suit one would expect on doctors or politicians. His reddish brown hair parted to one side and a pair of thin-wire glasses balanced on the end of a slender nose. The man himself showed no physical strength, but instead was slender and upon closer notice of the curved cheek, narrow chin and lips, Nichol knew that this person was related to Catherine.

"I'm looking to buy a horse. Catherine suggested I ask Trowa Barton." He answered, the truth serving him well enough.

"Catherine sent you?" The tone turned almost wistful, and Nichol realized he had misjudged. Trowa Barton was still more or less a sheltered, soft boy.

"She said you were a trusted relation and that you knew your horses," Nichol was taken back by the flush of color in the boy's olive tinted cheeks. That and the green eyes were chief differences in the half-siblings. Trowa also was more demure.

"Related, yes, well. She is quite something, isn't she?" Trowa seemed as if pulling himself back from an addictive distraction, "Well, if Cathy wanted me to show you my horses. I have enough to sell you one. And I can make a fair price for you, unlike the stables. But you can't blame them for trying to turn a better profit. Which is why I don't often offer mine out."

Nichol found himself following the boy toward a private stable a distance beyond the main house. While they walked in silence, except for the sounds of night creatures starting to awaken, Nichol asked suddenly, "You live here alone?"

Politely, Trowa Barton slowed his pace and said with solemn acquiescence, "My father and mother died four years ago, sickness. I managed to keep everything with the help of my mother's sister, and aunt who came from the east to make sure I was taken care of as her only nephew, you see. She gave me a bit of an education, and only left last summer to go back to the cities."

"What are you? Twenty?" Nichol asked.

"Nineteen now," Trowa nodded with a small smile, another difference from Catherine's cat-like grin, "I have a three year old bay I might part with easily enough. She carries distance better than weight. Is that what you need?"

"Hn," Nichol wasn't listening, the man who he'd hated for his entire life was dead before he could kill him. Then he noticed Trowa stopped walking and was staring at him with a perplexed gaze behind the reflective shine of the glasses. The kid's ignorance sparked the dwindling rage that had carried him the last six miles to Twin Creek on foot.

"I asked your name, I don't think I have it,"

And the boy's politeness was irritating.

"Nikolai..." he caught himself just as his name slipped through the rage-lowered barriers. Nichol felt the temperature of his neck start to increase.

Trowa hadn't noticed, instead tipped his head into a nod as he unlocked the stable door, which was a dainty latch for a well-dressed young aristocrat. He pulled it open and moved to light the lantern there. A nickered call and stomp greeted him.

Nichol moved to follow when unexpected the boy turned on his heels. Wide-eyed and with his lips half parted, Trowa Barton noticeably swallowed. Nichol, caught off guard, hesitated.

"Niko...lai," the boy's lip trembled while he spoke, "That name." His eyes seemed to refuse to blink instead narrowing and opening wide in disbelief. Nichol felt himself gaining the upper hand and stepped forward intimidating the boy back against the corner pole of the first stall.

"Yeah, so what do you know?" Nichol sneered, enjoying as he watched bewilderment transform into almost awe-like reverence, if it was that.

"A brother, like Catherine, who was a dark Russian," Trowa said quietly, calculating with an expression that resembled his woman of the world half-sister, "You."

"Yeah, so what do you know?" Nichol asked again, grabbing the boy by both shoulders and slamming him into the pole so that dust began to drift down from the hayloft. He vaguely recalled what came after and pushed closer to peer past the glasses.

Trowa turned his face away, which Nichol took as a bashful declination, but the words surprised him, "I wondered if I'd get to meet you."

Nichol pushed back, disgusted with their close proximity. Disgusted that the boy was so delicate and misguided to think of bastard children as his sister and brother.

"What are you?" Nichol hissed, "Some pervert who's aroused at thoughts of his father's ill-gotten offspring?"

The next thing Nichol knew, he was recoiling from a fist to his jaw and bent double at the pain from an equally strong punch. It was quick, and, not expecting a violent retort, Nichol was caught completely unprepared. He wheezed and glared up at Trowa. Trowa Barton who had a carefully guarded chilliness about him.

"Heh," Nichol wiped at his mouth, testing to find his teeth still there. Trowa watched him closely as he stood up straight. Catching Nichol off-guard a second time for a second defense was out of the question, which they both knew, "Did Catherine teach you how to throw that punch?"

Trowa carefully chose his next words, but even Nichol could notice the walls that had suddenly been thrown up from the amiable boy on the front lawn, "You haven't hurt Catherine, have you?"

"What? No." Nichol sputtered, this time caught unprepared by the question.

"Then why the hell are you here?" Trowa scanned him from the dusty boots to his untidy mop of dark hair, "You don't look much."

"I'll ignore that," Nichol said chillily, "I came for a horse. I had to put mine down six miles back. So, I need a horse."

"Sure," Trowa crossed his arms, "You need a horse. Go to the stables. I'm sure you could afford a nag or donkey." He eyed the dust on Nichol's shoulders with a skeptical lift to his eyebrow.

"Fine." Nichol snapped, "I don't want charity. Not from you or anyone."

"Then why did you come back? If you don't... if you don't care about family." Trowa asked, and Nichol could hear the emotional crackle through the newly distant approach. Something Nichol had said had unsettled Trowa Barton.

"I came a bit too late. Four years too late. I had some unsettled business with your father."

"My father?" Trowa was an alert listener, Nichol had to give him that. But, Nichol had intentionally wanted to distance himself from the odd sensation that still crawled on his skin like someone dropped an open jar of spiders on his body.

"Your father," Nichol gave a breathy laugh, "My mother wasn't quite good at figuring out which fella she took to her bed begot her only son."

"It's just the inheritance you're after, then?" Trowa said sharply.

Nichol started. This time he was the perplexed receiver of unexpected information, "Excuse me?"

"Brother or not," Trowa said, with cool detachment that seemed to suit Nichol's first impression rather than the warm young man who so comfortably talked about his horses, "You were left a portion of father's estate."

Nichol stared.

"How else do you think Catherine was able to buy out the saloon?" Trowa scoffed, each word distancing himself, withdrawing, "My aunt tried to keep the lawyers from upholding the will, but I made sure Catherine got her share. Which means that yours is sitting in trust." Trowa frowned, "Catherine deserved it."

"And I don't?" Nichol retorted, then stepped back at the ridiculous argument he found himself in.

"I don't know who you are," Trowa dusted off the front of his jacket where Nichol had left smudges of the roads where he'd traveled.

"And you don't care," Nichol finished the thought. An odd silence settled, as if Nichol had known Trowa as long as he'd known Jacob Walker, except he'd only kept company with the aloof boy for the better part of twenty minutes.

"Well, you're rough enough with the owners of your potential purchases. I'd guess you're not used to the delicate art of legal purchases," Trowa lifted his chin to better look at Nichol through his glasses.

Nichol felt an odd flutter through his stomach, and he didn't resist the urge to mock-punch Trowa's arrogant chin. He laughed when Trowa tucked in his jaw and frowned with fiercely put-on indifference.

Not expecting Trowa to trouble him, Nichol turned and walked out into the deepening dark of the evening. He paused, uncertain where to go. He was pretty certain what sort of evening waited for him if he went back to the saloon. The look on Walker's face had been a singular determination that had not seemed unreciprocated.

"Forget how to get back?"

Nichol turned to see Trowa standing silhouetted against the now brighter light of the lantern.

"I remember too well," Nichol answered, surprised at the truth, "I just don't know what to think. Your old man destroyed my life, Trowa Barton. I don't know what stories they tell you, but after keeping me for seven years, he dropped me like the cheap whore's son that I was and went back to his legitimate heir. But it doesn't seem like he changed much if he kept populating the community with prostitute's children."

"Catherine is older than I am," Trowa said, a directionless observation.

"So he quit after he got one on his old lady," Nichol scowled, "But how does he, why does he think he needs to put Nikolai Raskolnikov in his damn will?"

"I'd think most people wouldn't mind getting some sort of monetary reimbursement for past wrongs," Trowa started.

"Who? Other greedy aristocrats!" Nichol tried to temper the volume of his voice, "I don't want his money."

Trowa considered Nichol's comments while Nichol continued to try to control his breathing and slow the rise and fall of his shoulders. The sweat of antagonism and pressure had met the night air and caused a shiver of ice through the warmth of his anger.

"Do you want to kill me, instead?" Trowa said evenly.

Nichol couldn't see the expression on Trowa's face, but knew that his own must have been an open page of lines and contours from the stable light, "It isn't that easy just to kill somebody. You either had to work up to it or catch yourself in a tight spot."

"And..." Trowa sought clarification.

"Right now, isn't either of those," Nichol said, straightening his shoulders and noticed that the boy might have equal height with himself, "You weren't what I was expecting, that's for sure."

"Neither are you," Trowa said quietly.

"About what I..." Nichol started, wondering where an apology was coming from. He didn't owe this boy anything.

"It's fine, don't say it," Trowa waved his hand dismissively, "If Catherine's taught me anything, it's to not expect too much from relatives. I shouldn't expect... anything... from non-relatives."

Nichol snorted, "Yeah, and I'd tell you the same."

"You're an interesting person," Trowa said, almost slipping back into his more personable tones.

"Well, don't expect much, kid," Nichol found himself almost wishing that he was related to Trowa Barton. Then he'd have an excuse to stay. But he shook his head at the though, Yuy was coming. And there was no rest. And there was no resolution, at least not what he expected, "If you don't see me again, it's probably better for you."

He rested his hand against the comfortable feel of White Fang's hilt as he continued his walk to the street. Perhaps he'd employ one of Catherine's Collectibles, breakfast with Jacob and take a nice horse from the stable as his payment for wrongs in the past. The town had made him a crook, he wanted repayment in equal measure. If not murder, he'd steal it back. Let them keep the forgiveness money in the bank's trust. No one would get it then.

Unless. Nichol smiled to himself. Unless someone robbed the bank.

"Nikolai!" It was Trowa Barton's voice again. He was as bad as a little brother could be.

"What?" Nichol snapped, turning from his happy plotting. Trowa was leading the bay which was hastily put into a bridle but lacked a saddle, "Ah, now what's this?"

"I wanted you to have something," Trowa seemed suddenly at a loss, "Something useful. You can remember me by it, or not."

"Kid, you've got to stop doing things like this or you're going to give people the wrong impression," Nichol bit back the affectionate lilt in his words. He knew that unless Trowa was beaten down hard at some point in his life, this gentleness would be used to betray him, "What's the name?" Nichol ran his fingers along the horse's forelock.

"Heavyarms," Trowa said solemnly.

"What?" Nichol laughed.

"I helped when she was born, she was pretty heavy in my..."

"Arms. You're incorrigible," Nichol shook his head, "The last person who named my horse let me sleep with them." He leered.

After a silent moment, Trowa said, "I have spare rooms if you need a place to stay, I just thought you..."

Nichol gave Heavyarms a heavy slap along her neck which made her casually stamp her front leg, "No, no. You're all too seductive when you play innocent," He sneered, "Fortunately, your sister knows better than to take your offers. Oh, and I wouldn't worry about her. Jacob's a good man. He's not got his face on a poster and will settle down really nice running a whisky shop."

He saw Trowa fumbling for a comment and interjected, "Well, I'm going back to saddle up my horse here, thank you. And I wouldn't wait for me if I were you, not until you hear how things settle out with Sheriff Yuy. Don't believe everything they tell you about me. Well, some of it, perhaps."

"Nikolai," Trowa's chilled resolve had melted with the continued conversation and he seemed like a reasonably likable young man, one who could stand his ground if he found his back against the wall. Nichol rubbed his jaw.

"I'll call you when I need a lawyer, if it comes to that sort of thing," Nichol pulled on the reins and Trowa let them slip from his hands, "I hope it doesn't."

He was down the walkway lined with shaped stones and flowers, then out the gate into the main road that would lead him back into town. He knew, even in the dark, that the dirt was climbing onto his shoes. Marking him with time and place. He'd had the same dirt on his shoes, from this place in a different time. And that had made all the difference.


End file.
